


Begin Again

by angree_baratheon



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Greek – Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Infidelity, and proved to everybody that they won't have their marriage imploding, aphrodite truly learns different kind of love, hephaestus is quiet and is trying his best a lot, like: she's always recognised it but she really learns what it means, they both eventually got their shit together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angree_baratheon/pseuds/angree_baratheon
Summary: Maybe in another life, she’d met him differently; and they would be good friends, and she would be enchanted by his hard work and dark hair. Later, when he gifts her this beautiful necklace, she’d kiss him until the sun rises. This is not that life.Or, that story where Hephaestus and Aphrodite marries in an arrangement made by Zeus, they're unhappy about it, and, it takes a while, but they decided to rewrite history and somehow make it work anyway.
Relationships: Aphrodite/Hephaestus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wowza! I was really to be honest just pulled into the Greek Mythology fandom by this _amazing_ webtoon which showcases Persephone and Hades' love story. I don't know how exactly I've gotten from that point to the Hephaestus and Aphrodite's tragic romance, but! Here we are!
> 
> I don't really have much to say here, except I've gotten the plot bunnies for their story for ages now and I finally decided to try and writing it down. What really triggered me was imagining Aphrodite getting frustrated enough and asking Hephaestus to finally, _finally_ share the bed with her. Not in any sexual way, but—they would just, lie there, together, and Aphrodite is delighted because she _wants_ to work on this marriage, and Hephaestus totally has a crush on his wife.
> 
> However, we're still _a bit too_ early till we came to that point of the story, I think? So, we'll definitely be starting this story with tension and lots, _lots_ of wrongdoings on both parties. What they did aren't okay, but the Gods are dramatics. It happens.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy my rendition of their tale!

_ You're calling to me, I can't hear _ _  
_ _ What you've said _ _  
_ _ Then you say, go slow _ __  
__ I fall behind   
— Cindy Lauper, “Time After Time”

The rough of his hands are the first thing Aphrodite notices.

It’s calloused and heavy. If he were any stronger or anymore pronounced of a God like Zeus, she could imagine that the impact of his strikes could leave holes easily.

He doesn’t leave holes. No. Hephaestus manoeuvres her as if she’s made nothing but a mortal’s rag doll and sits her, his movement promising rough treatment, but is delivered, to her surprise, gently. Almost hesitantly.

Her dainty fingers that’s held his shoulders in alarm from when he’s suddenly stopped moving trails down the expanse of his arm, and it’s prominent, the muscles there. Hard and firm. It reminds her strongly of Ares. This thought shames her, and she snatches her arms to her chest quickly as if Hephaestus himself were poison, and she’s come to him with no cure.

For a moment, she sees his brows furrowing in a way that suggests a depressed acceptance, before his gaze moves down.

He’s broad, is one she notes first, but smaller than most Gods alive. That’s why he was discarded, Aphrodite hears. He was small when he was birthed. Small, with a funny leg. A punishment, Zeus has claimed, for trying to breed a child independently. She’s got what’s coming for her, Zeus has seethed in anger. It was a whole controversy. And Hephaestus, nothing but a collateral damage, was thrown off Mount Olympus.

Now, here he is.

“I’m sorry,” is what he said; and he’s broad, Aphrodite notes again, but she’s never heard something that comes out this small before. 

Her head throbs, and she knows the rising feeling in her chest is anger. She’s familiar with anger. When you love too much, other emotions tend to follow. “You’re  _ sorry?! _ ”

It’s their first official conversation, and it’s not going well. Hephaestus flinches at the rise of her voice—maybe he thought her demure and simple; he wouldn’t be the first—and looks as if he’s shrunk three times the actual size of his giant shoulders and equally large hands. This was the same man who stomped around while trapping his mother in public and ignoring demands when the crowd begged him to release his Queen?

How could it be - Aphrodite was among the Gods who’ve witnessed Hera yelling for help, and this was  _ not _ the man she thought was foolishly bold but probably justifiably furious.

That man, at least, didn’t look like he was cowering.

Hephaestus’ face turns a ridiculous shade of red. That, somehow, angers Aphrodite to a level she wasn’t sure she was capable of before. Her legs pushes her to stand on the bench she’s been put on, and the height gives her courage as she bellows, “You demanded my hands as if you have _a right!_ _Nobody has a right over me! I am the bloody Goddess of Love! And you humiliated me!”_

Hephaestus’ eyes are wide. “I—” He stammers, sliding back slightly but eventually stopping. “I’m sorry.”

“ _ I DON’T CARE FOR YOUR SORRIES! I DON’T  _ WANT _ YOUR SORRIES! I WANT MY  _ LIFE _ BACK! _ ” It’s hard on her, all of these emotions, all of these anger that’s causing her body to tremble almost uncontrollably. Aphrodite’s been so angry so very few, and it has her lose her head. She wants Ares, all of a sudden. Ares and his constant presence and his war stories and that strength in his eyes when he tilts his head back to laugh or to moan. He’d know what to do. He’d know just the thing to have her smiling and preening.

“I didn’t think they would hear me!” Hephaestus’ voice snaps, but not unkindly. Just exasperated. As if he’s a kitten cornered and the mewl it left out is only a whimper of fear instead to instigate a scare. “I didn’t think… they never _saw_ _me_ before.”

If it had been any other time, maybe she’d even be tempted to listen. Aphrodite is prideful, yes, and was even vain, she admits to this. Though that doesn’t mean she’d push away a thought that wanted to be listened to.

Now, though.  _ Now _ , Aphrodite thinks him childish. Petty. Unworthy of her time.  _ To just be seen _ , she snorts. He is nothing but a grown child throwing a tantrum! “You ruined me. You ruined my life.”

“I wouldn’t.” Hephaestus breathes immediately—so immediately, in fact, that Aphrodite staggers, if only for a second, surprised by how abrupt and how determined this man in front of her look. The dark in his eyes remind her of the same light her lovers would show in the throes of their passion; it wasn’t the look she’d ever thought this defected man could ever give. “I taught my hands to build. I don’t ruin.”

Her cheeks are hot and the stupor is broken. Aphrodite glares. “I am not a machine to be fixed!”

“Of course not.” He is ashamed, she knows, by the way the tip of his fears only grow maddeningly pink as the seconds grow and the way his gaze falls like a child being scolded. He is so human from these small acts, and it shows: Gods don’t usually turn any other shades than the skin that they were born with. They were the pictures of perfection, and perfection don’t usually need to be altered or improved, after all. Hephaestus is somehow exempted once again. He is freckled too, and colours so easily. “You’re… Of course not.”

“I don’t wish to be married.” Aphrodite pushes her chest up, defiant; just as she’s been when Zeus is relentless at pleading her to concede to a marriage every time. She didn’t think he would win. Somehow, she should’ve suspected that he’ll find a way somehow. “And if I were, I don’t want a faulty God as my husband.”

Hephaestus meets her eyes at this, and she instantly knows he’s hurt deeply. A small part of her screams in protest:  _ a person filled with love does not hurt others _ , but she is angry still. She feels betrayed. He had carried her away from the crowd that’s reeling from Hera’s release and Zeus’ declaration as if she’s a piece to be picked up and shuffled onto racks and shelves. She’s hurt, too. She’s allowed this, surely.

“I will treat you right.” Hephaestus says them slowly, and it takes Aphrodite a few moments to realise he’s paced it as is that it almost sounds like a vow. She’s been prayed to, and she’s been worshipped. She’s never been vowed. “I am not like Zeus. I am not like any other Gods. I will… I will treat you right. I will be true.”

_ I won’t _ , Aphrodite wants to snap, thinking of her lovers, thinking of Ares and his pained eyes when Zeus announced what he had.

“ _ I said _ ,” She spits instead. “I don’t want a faulty God as my husband. And look at  _ you _ .”

She glances down, and she knows he is too — at the leg that doesn’t work too well. Hephaestus shifts and she notices, dismassly, how he clenches his fists by his sides. In anger? Humiliation? She doesn’t care. At least now he would know how she had felt, how she feels.

“I’m sorry.” Is all Hephaestus says in the end.

Aphrodite hears herself shouting, and then— _ SLAP _ —her right hand marks his face. He turns from the impact, and the Goddess of Love and Beauty realises she has tears running down her face. She’s never ever harmed anyone, and it hurts more than what Zeus has done, more than realising she’ll never be enough for anyone no matter how much she gives of her gift. She doesn’t ever want to harm again.

Aphrodite turns to realise he’s taken her to her home, and they’re in her garden.

She shuts the door on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

_Every whisper_ _  
_ _Of every waking hour_ _  
_ _I'm choosing my confessions_ _  
_ _Trying to keep an eye on you_   
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool   
— R.E.M. “Losing My Religion.”

He’s been gifted a palace, and they move there.

Admittedly, since their first interaction, Hephaestus and her don’t communicate much, if at all. She’s seen glimpses of him ever since she’s moved in, but they’ve never quite sat down or been in the same room for so long. It should be inconvenient considering the wedding, but the concern’s never been brought up nor faced.

The palace itself isn’t the nicest, but it’s large and the carvings are eye-catching enough to be pleasing. _If it were up to Hephaestus, the whole place would’ve been a workshop and there’d be no bed, no dining hall, nor even a room to just sit and admire the view_. Or, at least, that’s what Hera had claimed when she had stepped through the doors to welcome the new couple into the new resident. It was the first time Aphrodite’s realised that she knows nearly next to nothing of her future husband.

The history is obvious, of course. He was casted because he was unwanted, grown and groomed in Lemnos to be a master blacksmith, and was brought back to the heavens because he’d told the Gods that he’d carved his mother a beautiful throne. A beautiful, damning throne. One that had caused so many other events to transpire, even their marriage together.

He’s cheeky, then. Smart, but not in a conventional way.

She thought, sombrely, that she would’ve admired that—if only things hadn’t gone the way he did.

“I watched him, you know.” Hera admits, and Hera is all regal and straight-posture. She was the true image of a Queen, the only worthy figure to stand tall next to Zeus despite Zeus’ careless behaviour. One day, Hera will leave Zeus—she is the few who is strong enough to abandon the most powerful and worshipped God if she’s tired of him. Aphrodite can sense the waning love, can sense the strong scent of determination and longing for something else. Marriage is a hoax; there’s a reason Aphrodite has never desired one. “My beautiful boy.”

“Ares?” She asks, because the answer is obvious to her.

Hera, in return, smiles that tight-lipped smile, but it is not one out of agreement. “Hephaestus.”

Aphrodite thinks of her future husband with only a tiny drop of guilt that she’s adamant at washing away with wine. The broad of his shoulder, the thick of his black hair. He is matted with freckles and has a slightly lopsided face. There are braces, she suspects, of his own creation helping the fault to his left leg. By the standard of Olympus, he is ugly and unmatched. By mortals’, Aphrodite knows he is desired.

 _I will treat you right_ , he had said, eyes serious, his tone firm, and Aphrodite jolts at the sudden recollection.

She drinks her wine some more.

“He’s a quiet boy. But he prays every night.” Hera hums. “ _I pray the Gods won’t worsen this leg, I’ll need it to walk and stand you see, and I pray I will be better at blacksmithing so nobody would ever help me because I’ll be helping them instead and I pray my mother and father—wherever they are, wherever they may be—that the Gods shall protect them_ , and so on and so forth. He didn’t know until his voice changed. He didn’t know how he’d Fallen until that.”

Aphrodite rolls her eyes, stands. This means nothing to her. “Does this have a point?”

“If there is, dearest, you’re missing it.” Hera says this firmly, but with a lilt to her voice to let Aphrodite know she’s been insulted. She glares, but there isn’t much intensity to have had with the state of intoxication that's beginning to have the corners of her vision shines.Besides, Aphrodite is proud—even spiteful at times—but she is not stupid. She will not dishonour the King’s Queen. Or, at least, not when there isn’t a crowd to witness. “Hephaestus is not to be taken a fool.”

Aphrodite scoffs. “Of course. Which was why you’d cast him out when he was nothing but a babe.”

It is a cheap remark, but Aphrodite is unforgiving.

Hera doesn’t flinch—she’s a Queen, after all—though she pulls her gaze away. That’s a habit, Aphrodite realises with a surprising note, that her future husband has somehow inherited. “I do not have to explain myself to you.”

“Then why are you _here_?”

This time, when Hera did turn back, there’s a glint of madness in her looks. A kind of mischief mixed with a strong will that has Olympus fall to their knees to hail her Queen. Still, she appears poised, as if none of the Love Goddess’ words have startled Zeus’ Chosen Wife at all. “To welcome you into the family, of course.”

Aphrodite wants to throw her wine glass at her.

Hera continues. “I don’t expect you to be… well, _a wife_ , to my son, no. I understand this is out of your will, and, by all rights, you’re resenting him.” Perhaps it’s like love and beauty to Aphrodite, Hera senses the sincerity of marriages. Could she perhaps predict the outcome of this union? If so, Aphrodite has half a mind to plead for her to stop this whole thing. She's prideful though, and she's never keen on begging. So, naturally, Aphrodite keeps her lips thin and shut. Still, she knows.

There is no future here. There won’t be.

“But you saw what he’s done to me, in spite of my status or husband.” Hera continues, undeterred even if her humiliation at being caught in a trap should be something one would normally stutter or stammer through. Yes, everybody remembers of Hera's time being put on a chair where she would never be able to stand from—all at the hands of her abandoned child. Hell, Aphrodite had even been thrilled by the whole event. Excited when the news came to report and she'd been invited to gather and witness. It has had nearly all Olympus in gasps and horror, and some, like her, in a curious excitement to see how it would all unfold. Who knew it’d led her to her doom. “Whatever you’ve done, whatever you’re planning, do it knowing that your groom is no mere God simple to be tricked.”

 _The Goddess of Love and Beauty does not play tricks!_ She wants to yell, and why does it matter anyway? What _will_ Hephaestus do? When they’d faced each other, he could barely look her in the eyes; after their confrontation, he’d barely wanted to see her at all.

She is not a Goddess built with strength, certainly, but she is no mortal either.

The slap she’s given him had left a mark, she suspects. If her attendants had been right, Hephaestus has had to stay there, on his knees, by her garden for hours until he was able to be coaxed to leave; his cheeks red, and she knew, though she never confirmed, her attendants had been washing white rags that are stained with blood when night falls.

There is guilt suddenly that sits by her throat— _was this why Hephaestus hadn’t seen her at all?_ —but she ignores it.

“And you’ll bless us? You’ll bless this marriage?” When Aphrodite asks, she must’ve asked it so in such an empty voice that, as she turns to meet Hera’s gaze, she finally sees a flicker of the Queen’s emotions breaking into a surprise. _Had she never witnessed an unhappy union before?_ Aphrodite had never thought of that. Her matters had always been so full of love or passion or lust, even if it’d been affairs that shouldn't have been done behind spouses' back or loved ones' permissions.

She’s never really had to bless any unions without it.

But, whatever startled thought that renders Hera to hesitate, it vanishes. “If that is what my King commands.”

They are staying in the main chamber, the both of them, and it is a wide room: the whole floor of it could be filled with twenty men and there would still be more spaces for people to stand and dance. In the middle, there is a bed, wide enough that even if Aphrodite lies down and stretches, she would never reach either ends. It is white-marble and high-ceiling, with a balcony with a view to the ocean. Aphrodite could already imagine Ares taking her there, and she would call his name while she gazes at the place that’s likened to the place she was born as they reach for their climaxes.

She doesn’t like this bed; doesn’t like this room.

It was a marital gift, from Zeus himself, to Hephaestus and her, this whole damn palace, and already she’s imagining of filling every inch of the palace with no memories of her husband. She’ll taint it, she swears, drives him so mad that he’ll have no choice but to leave and denounce their ties together.

And all of that, just because Hera’s King commands so.

Aphrodite doesn’t cry.

The wedding happens, eventually, and the celebration is huge. Aphrodite still hasn’t seen much of her new husband, but she did see Ares, who grasped her from behind and takes her, angry but passionate, as he wails about the injustice of it all. They did it three times, none at where Aphrodite initially imagines they would, but it’d been satisfying and familiar. Oh so _familiar_ , when she grasps Ares’ curly hair and pushes it right back.

“I’ve missed you,” She whispers when he drives his hips in an angle that has her moaning, and Ares smiles, a brilliant thing to be seen, before he hushes it because the crowd behind the curtain might just hear.

They don’t, or even if they had, they hadn’t blinked twice at her slightly askew dress.

She sees Hephaestus much, much later.

She is treading her way up the stairs to the room—she hasn’t quite called it _hers_ , and it isn’t _theirs_ because the damned blacksmith has never stepped foot in it—when she hears heavy footsteps fall behind. She turns, and Hephaestus is well-dressed, with his shaggy black hair pushed back. Like this, towering over and his face tilting up to meet her attention, Aphrodite, in her drunken state, can admit that her husband is not… as badly looking as rumours had made him looked. As badly-looking as _she_ had built him up in her head since their last encounter because she needed to exercise a piece of her dissatisfaction somewhere.

His eyes are dark, but clear when he watches her; or perhaps it’s the effect of having the top of his cheeks to the area of his forehead being the only part that isn’t covered in hair that makes them stand out. Still, the lashes around there is full, and his brows expressive.

He looks skittish, but he doesn’t move away.

Aphrodite turns, fully. 

The right side of his face is red, still, but she says nothing of it. 

“Did you want me?” It’s as if she’s addressing one of her attendants that’s brought sudden news and has had to interrupt her. Aphrodite thinks rather sardonically that that might not be too far off. Hephaestus certainly plays the part of an attendant well—if, that is, they had been more meek and quiet.

“Yes,” He bows his head, and if she’d known him better, she thinks he may just almost kneel. “I brought you a gift.”

“A gift?”

She doesn’t come to him, nor he to her. The distance between them, which is almost a full ten steps away, stay like that. Aphrodite sees now how the back of her dress decorates the stairs behind her—and it is glittery, meant to look as if the stars are shining back with the light of the moon that reflects on them. Had it been any other event, Aphrodite could even admit that she’s had a good time from the wine and the socialising. She had looked radiant too, which was her favourite way to be, and she’d smelt nice. Dionysus couldn’t stop smelling her. They’d giggled about it like two mortal schoolgirls over wine.

And she’d seen her husband not once, not physically.

 _This_ is a marriage that had been placed upon her.

Instantly, the wave of anger is back, but Aphrodite’s no time to address it when Hephaestus pulls something. It is a box, and then, slowly, he untangles the box to reveal a jewelry. 

“Yes,” Hephaestus answers again, and brings his gift to eye-level. “I crafted it myself.”

 _A jewellery_ , Aphrodite notes dumbly. A necklace, to be precise, and it is a thin thing. Silver. Nothing like the gold and the wealth that one would see and associated easily with richness. At the end of it, is a shape of a crescent moon surrounding a circle—but not any circle. Under the light, the circle is the blue of the sky. Moved to another way, it is the darkest blue of the sea. 

_He made this?_ She wonders, but she does not move forward, though she’s tempted to. _I thought you only forge weapons_.

“Would you…” The trance is broken; Aphrodite realises now that she likes confident man. Never stuttering ones. Never those who are constantly hesitant. Hephaestus is clearly a talented craftsmen, but he’s no ladies’ man. He’s no charmer. This irritates her somehow. “Would you accept this?”

Still, Aphrodite takes a step down. Just one. Her chin tilting upwards. “Why?”

“I…” Hephaestus looks taken aback, as if he hadn’t expected any other answer than a yes or a no. His cheeks, not just where she had marked him, grows red. “It’s a gift.” He repeats, turning his head down. When he moves, the blue of the sapphire changes once more. It is now the sea on the horizon. “We are married.”

Aphrodite’s head throbs. “But I do not concede to it.”

Hephaestus doesn’t flinch this time, though his shoulder slinks down, defeated. “I am sorry.”

An eyebrow twitches.

“I’ve told you before—” The Goddess of Love grits them out through her teeth. “I do not _care_ for your sorries!”

“But _I am!_ ” Hephaestus sounds frustrated, the only few outbursts that she’s managed to get out of him, but he is careful, still. He never moves from his spot, never pulls her eyes up to gaze back and defy her. Instead, it’s as if he’s moaning his protest only to the marble floor. Aphrodite feels affronted, feels confused, feels _trapped_. “I tried, I’ve spoken to Zeus, I asked Hermes, but—”

“WELL, _YOU FAILED!_ ” She is so tired, and the wine she’s had didn’t seem enough anymore. She never wants this union. She never wants to be tied to anybody. She is not made to love only one person. She is not like Persephone, who swears only to Hades, and seems content by that promise. “Your efforts meant nothing to me.”

A hand to her face, and Aphrodite wills herself not to cry. Not in front of this husband she does not love, who she thinks, fearfully, she never will—at least, not like this.

Maybe in another life, she would’ve met him differently; and they would be good friends, he and her. She would be enchanted by his hard work and dark hair. And, maybe, he’ll find her exciting enough along with the beating of his hammer against anvils. Later, when he gifts her this beautiful necklace, she’d kiss him until the sun rises and would be sad to stop. This is not that life.

Aphrodite misses the sea.

“Sleep, then.” Hephaestus says in the end, sad but kind all at the same time, and the Goddess of Love watches as the blacksmith puts the necklace gently back in the box in a manner she had never really seen anybody performed except perhaps Dionysus, when new arrival of wine came through and he has yet to be in a mood to open and share them. It’s private. Soft, almost. “Good night, Aphrodite.”

He leaves her at the stairs, and she wonders, momentarily, if winning an argument should feel this empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. aphrodite is still a character i'm???? getting used to write, but i'm very hype to write about her because she represents love and love!!! i think, isn't always a smooth-sailing thing, unlike what romance novels and movies like to sell, and for her to embody such a bold and emotion-triggering feeling is so so unique, and i hope i'm carefully portraying her that here. and! i know it's rocky right now, that's the plan, but also............ i have Big Plans(tm).
> 
> ii. in all honesty, it's actually my first very real attempt at trying to delve into greek myths so!!!! please do tell me of your own opinions / how you see things along the way, because i would hella love to hear those thoughts and maybe get a discussion going when we can cause to have several inputs are always!!!! so good!!!! i definitely need the help but most of all, i would just really like to see if my portrayal of how i see these gods and goddesses work????? yeah!
> 
> iii. hephaestus is my true bae. and,,,, i know ares is shady rn but i- i really wanna try to portray ares as a good (if not slightly awkward cause hes the jock and heph is, like, the Beefy Nerd) brother so!! we'll see how that goes :)


End file.
